


i hate you, i love you, i hate that i love you

by asleepingcat (darlingholocene)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Dorks in Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Laver Cup, M/M, Saschanos, dumb blondes, dumbasses in love, lovik's puppies, tall blonde and dumb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-13 09:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20580152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingholocene/pseuds/asleepingcat
Summary: Sascha and Stefanos get paired up to play doubles at the Laver Cup. They're tall, they're blond, they despise each other.What could possibly go wrong?#saschanosrights





	1. two is better than one

**Author's Note:**

> idek what i'm doing, if i finish this it will be a miracle

“Did you see?”

Mischa’s voice cuts through Sascha’s thoughts of puppies and self-pity – a good mix of positive and negative, if you ask him.

“See what?” he asks, Lovik’s puppies all over him where he’s lying on the carpet.

“Tsitsipas is doing the Laver Cup this season”, Mischa tells him. Sascha can tell from his face that he’s trying not to look too amused. He’s waiting for a reaction out of Sascha, so Sascha does his best not to give him that and just shrugs, focusing on the brown puppy trying to crawl on his chin.

“Good for him,” he says and – yeah, maybe that sounded a little bitchy.

Mischa grins, clearly sensing his brother’s annoyance, but he chooses not to say anything and changes the topic to something else before stopping to answer a phone call and leaving the room. Sascha is grateful for that, at least.

It’s not like he wasn’t expecting Tsitsipas to be on the Laver Cup team – he was. He’s not unaware of the good season the Greek had this year, not when the news keep talking about it and he even gets asked questions about his rival during pressers. _It’s not like Stefanos is doing too well now, though_, his mind supplies him with – and yeah, that’s fair. But neither is he.

Sascha is having a disaster season, to say the truth.

The mental strength, the confidence, the aggressiveness he felt within him last season seem to have vanished into thin air, and he doesn’t know how to get them back. He knows that he needs to, though. He won’t let himself become yet another young star who turns into smoke.

He decides in that moment that the Laver Cup will be his moment to prove everyone wrong – and the best way he can do that is by outplaying Tsitsipas. Sascha wants to humiliate him and show the world that he’s the original tall-young-blond player to look out for.

He remembers then that he and Tsitsipas are both on Team Europe. They won’t play against each other. Sascha lets out a frustrated huff before it hits him – it’s a genius idea. He will ask Roger if he and Tsitsipas can play doubles together.

If you put them side by side, the better player should be obvious to anyone. Sascha sits up suddenly, a couple of puppies ending up on his lap but staying asleep. He feels the adrenaline running through his veins and for the first time in what seems like an eternity he feels his old strength lighting up inside him.

There is no way he will let this opportunity slip away from him: he _will _play doubles with Tsitsipas and he _will _be the better player on that doubles team.

Without further ado, he picks up his phone and shoots a text to Roger, hoping that his request will be accepted.

\---

_17.34_

_Hey Roger, how are you?_

_Listen, I saw Tsitsipas is coming to LC_

_Can I play doubles with him?_

_19.21_

_Hey Sascha, good to hear from you_

_I hope you’re doing well_

_I’ll see what I can do about the doubles_

_Are you sure about it? I thought you and Stefanos didn’t get along_

_19.30_

_Yeah I’m sure _

_Don’t worry, we’ll get along fine_

_I just think it would be interesting _

_Since we’re the youngest people on the team_

_No offence :)_

_19.43_

_Yes offence_

_Did you ask Stefanos?_

_19.49_

_No but I’m sure he would agree with me_

_19.51_

_That’s strange, I remember you taking shots at him_

_During pretty much every single one of your pressers_

_I must be remembering wrong…_

_We were thinking of pairing you with Dominic_

_Since you two ACTUALLY get along_

_19.55_

_We do_

_But where is the challenge in that?_

_19.59_

_I’ll see what I can do_

\---

Stefanos lands in New York for the US Open and the first notification on his phone when it gets out of airplane mode is a text from Roger Federer.

He would be extremely excited about it if it wasn’t for the content of said text – a text so long it looks more like an essay. That can’t be good news.

_Hey Stefanos, hope you’re well. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other soon in NYC, but I wanted to let you know that we’ve decided to pair you up with Sascha for the doubles team at the Laver Cup. We think people will be very excited… after all you’re both young, tall and blond, I’m sure the crowd will love that. I know that you two have very strong characters, but I think you can learn to cooperate and you will be a great team. Good luck!_

Stefanos calmly tries not to scream.

He’s had an awful two months after his very impressive run in the first half of the season – so awful that people are already starting to drag him down. The same people that were hailing him as the next Federer a month ago.

He hates the press so much.

He’s been trying to get himself back together for the US Open, trying desperately – the last thing he needs is having to learn to cooperate with that spoiled brat, Alexander Zverev.

It’s no mystery that he and Zverev junior don’t get along. It’s not like they have actually ever interacted outside the court, but their exchanges during the few times they have played each other were more than enough to establish that. Stefanos wouldn’t say that they hate each other, it’s more that both of them are extremely ambitious and – Stefanos can own up to it – arrogant. However, Stefanos still sees himself as a pretty down to earth person with a pretty regular life, while Zverev gives off the same vibes that a rich upper class kid would have if they had ever been in school together.

Stefanos hasn’t exactly spent time with Zverev in real life, but he’s pretty sure that the spoiled rich kid image he has in his mind isn’t too far off from reality. He knows Zverev dislikes him too. Stefanos thinks he’s actually jealous of the attention he’s receiving. The German always finds a way to throw a little dart towards him during his press conferences, even when the topic doesn’t require it.

That’s fine.

The Laver Cup will show him. Stefanos decides immediately that he will use the opportunity to show everyone how much better he is than Alexander Zverev, in and out of the court. For two years Zverev had all the attention as the most successful next-gen player, winning Masters 1000 and the ATP Finals. He never followed through though, and Stefanos firmly believes that he will rise far beyond whatever Zverev ever accomplished.

So why not play doubles at the Laver Cup? What better way to prove himself.

He sends Roger a text agreeing to the doubles plan and runs off to practice.

Better start now.


	2. a little love and a slice of cheesecake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sascha and Stefanos bump into each other, they don't say anything to each other but freak out anyway.

Stefanos’ US Open is a nightmare.

He knew he wasn’t in top shape – mentally and physically – but he didn’t expect to be knocked out in round one – _again. _

After the match, his father is trying to give him some sort of speech, half motivational and half a reprimand, but Stefanos isn’t ready to listen to it. He hides in the locker room, surprisingly empty at this time of the day, and proceeds to having the longest shower possible that won’t have people thinking he drowned in there.

He sets the water on cold and tries to wash away the horrible sense of dread that’s sitting on his stomach like a rock.

It doesn’t really work, and he makes his way back to his seat and slowly gets dressed, trying to put off the moment he will have to sit in front of a room full of journalists ready to pounce on him. The locker room is so quiet it’s eerie, until the sound of one of the doors opening alerts Stefanos.

He shifts his gaze towards the entry and is met with Alexander Zverev’s bright blue eyes staring at him.

For a moment, Zverev looks like he’s going to run away – and now _that _would be something new, because while Stefanos thinks his rival is arrogant and entitled, he also secretly admires his fight and determination.

He doesn’t. He just stands there for a long moment, staring, and Stefanos suddenly feels weirdly inadequate and naked, even if he just finished getting dressed.

It hits him that if anyone can understand his current situation, it has to be the person standing on the opposite side of the room. Zverev seems to realize it himself: he nods slowly and if Stefanos didn’t know better he’d swear he saw a flash of pained sympathy in his eyes as well.

“Sascha, move over mate. I haven’t got all day,” comes a voice from outside the room, and just like that the moment is broken.

Zverev startles and hurries over to a different area of the locker room, while John Isner walks in followed shortly by a couple of others.

Stefanos leaves, ready to be skinned alive by the press – but that moment of quiet understanding with Zverev haunts his thoughts for far longer than any of their questions do.

\---

Sascha loves NYC.

The city is buzzing at all times, full of lights and people, and it makes him feel energized and beautifully alive.

Somehow, he made it to the second week of the US Open, and he will have to face Diego in the fourth round tomorrow. Sascha tries to find in himself the same surety that he felt when he beat the big three so early in his career.

He doesn’t remember being scared, back then. On the contrary, he knows that he used to walk out on the court with the absolute certainty that he could beat them, that he could win against legends and become one himself.

Maybe he lost the recklessness of the early days, maybe his confidence has been shattered permanently, but Sascha feels like he doesn’t stand a chance against Diego.

He rolls in his bed, the lights of the city shining outside the window. He can’t seem to be able to fall asleep. Frustrated, he picks up his phone and opens Instagram, the only app he actually knows how to use himself.

And of course the first thing he sees has to be Tsitsipas – not that he follows him, but for some reason Instagram’s algorithm keep suggesting his profile as someone Sascha may want to follow. As if.

Tsitsipas seems to be still in NYC despite his loss in the first round, and Sascha briefly wonders why. Without him wanting it to, his mind flies back to what had happened last week in the locker room – although nothing had _really _happened at all.

Still, even if he doesn’t like Tsitsipas, in that long moment where their eyes had met, the Greek looking angry and defeated, Sascha had felt _seen_. It had been a jarring experience; Sascha was an emotional person and he prided himself in his ruthless honesty, but he seldom shared what eh truly felt with people, aside from rational analyses and observations. And yet, he had known in that moment that Stefanos could see right through him – just like he could see through Stefanos.

It makes him feel uncomfortable.

Suddenly, he regrets asking Roger to play doubles with Tsitsipas. He knows there’s no way he can back out of it now, not after Roger listened to his request and made it a reality.

Does Tsitsipas know that it’s Sascha who asked?

Sascha sits up on his bed, feeling nauseous without really being able to put a finger on _why _he’s feeling like this. He takes a deep breath and resolves to never interact with Tsitsipas outside the court, and to only talk tactics with him when Roger or someone else is there.

He feels ashamed, but there’s just something unsettling about he and Stefanos being so exposed to each other – even if he’s sure neither of them want to be. _Sascha _certainly doesn’t.

His phone supplies him with an Instagram story of Tsitsipas spending time with his family – some of them are children and alright, Sascha can at least admit this, their interactions are kinda cute.

God, he’s feeling slightly sick to his stomach, like he’s having a bunch of tiny cramps all over. Is he getting ill? He can’t be. He needs to be in shape tomorrow when he faces Diego, because even if he’s pretty sure he’s going to lose, he wants to give it all he has.

Sascha throws his phone away, hearing it fall somewhere on the carpet, and closes his eyes, laying his head on the plush pillow. He waits, and tries, and waits, but sleep evades him until dawn is breaking outside and the city is waking up again.

The last thing he remembers before he finally succumbs to sleep, brain wired and semi-delirious with tiredness, is a quote stuck on repeat in his head - _‘a little love and a slice of cheesecake’._

He can’t for the life of him remember where he read that.


	3. sleepless in manhattan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefanos wears a terrible disguise, Sascha is dumb and clueless.

Sascha loses to Diego. He wishes he could say he was shocked, he knows he would have been had it happened last season – but he isn’t. He’s been expecting it. He guesses that’s what happens when your confidence falls below zero.

He tries to shake it off – after all, this is his best ever result at the US Open, so he can at least be happy about getting to the second week for the first time and hope that next season he will be in a better state of mind and do even more.

Still, even if he had mentally prepared himself, it’s hard to stop replaying all the moments in the match where he could have done differently, could have done better.

“You should go for a walk,” Mischa suggests from where he’s sitting next to Sascha on the king-sized bed of the hotel. “Enjoy NYC a little… you love this city, you might as well make the most of it since we’re leaving tomorrow”.

“Are you coming with me?”

“I can’t. I promised dad I would help him with some paperwork, since you don’t seem to care about doing your part,” Mischa replies. The jab doesn’t really sting, both because of Mischa’s playful tone and because Sascha truly doesn’t care about doing paperwork – especially since he has a new management now who can take care of it.

In the end it’s exactly to avoid filling in stupid forms that he decides to venture out alone in Manhattan for an evening walk. He’s pretty sure most people won’t recognize him – it’s not like he has exactly left a mark at the tournament – so it should be safe for him to just stroll around the neighbourhood.

His hotel is pretty close to Central Park, so that’s where he decides to go. His sense of direction is pretty terrible, so he takes out his phone and checks Google Maps a couple times to make sure he’s going the right way.

Before he can get to his destination though, he spots a familiar figure walking towards him and stops dead in his tracks. Tsitsipas is dressed ridiculously – he’s wearing a hoodie with the hood covering as much of his hair as possible and he’s also sporting a pair of _sunglasses_, which make him look absolutely ridiculous since the evening is well on its way.

Sascha feels a slam in his ribs – surely because he wasn’t expecting to see his rival out and about in NYC dressed like he’s ready to pickpocket someone. Sascha was aware that Stefanos was still in NYC because of his stupid Instagram updates, but still. Why does Stefanos even _need _a disguise? If people don’t recognize Sascha, they definitely won’t recognize _him_.

Because of the stupid sunglasses, Sascha can’t tell if Tsitsipas has noticed him or not. He can’t decide if he should just keep walking and pretend he hasn’t seen him or try to be civil and acknowledge him. Before he can solve his dilemma, Stefanos takes a sharp turn to the right and disappears down an alley.

Before he even realizes he’s doing it, Sascha follows him.

_It’s fine, _he tells himself, _I’ll just see where he’s going._

It’s not like he _cares_ where Stefanos is going, he’s probably trying to find a good spot to film one of his dumb vlogs, like “I got lost in NYC! NOT CLICKBAIT”. God, Sascha hates him. He also hates himself for following him around, keeping as much of a distance as possible to avoid being discovered.

Tsitsipas seems to know where he’s going, because he never once checks his phone for directions. Sascha is starting to get annoyed – he’s been following the Greek for almost five full minutes – when Stefanos finally enters a shop.

They’re in a quiet street, people strolling around casually still dressed in their summer clothes. Sascha has to admit it’s a very nice spot, one that he’s surprised to find in the heart of Manhattan.

Slowly, he gets closer to the shop Tsitsipas entered and he realizes it’s a book shop that doubles as a coffee house. It’s so ridiculously cheesy and fake-hipster that Sascha actually rolls his eyes. He has no intention to enter – he’s pretty sure Stefanos would notice him right away if he did. Suddenly he feels extremely stupid for even taking the bother to actually follow Tsitsipas around New York – what was he even trying to accomplish with that?

Annoyed at himself, he quickly turns around and starts walking back, hoping he can find his way to Central Park without too much effort.

He’s barely walked ten metres when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He’s a bit ashamed to admit he actually jolts and jerks away, taken by surprise and kind of scared he’s about to get robbed or something.

“Are you not gonna come inside?”

Stefanos has taken off his sunglasses and hood, and he’s staring at Sascha with a supremely unimpressed face, his tone dripping sarcasm as he stands with his arms crossed. He has tied his blond curls in a half-ponytail and Sascha is actually distracted by that for a split second, and when he goes to answer what comes out is a garbled ‘_nyet_’.

Stefanos raises an eyebrow, dark eyes pinning Sascha down and making him feel like he’s vulnerable and exposed.

“Nyet,” he repeats. “_Tak pochemu ty posledoval za mnoy?_”

Sascha had completely forgotten that Stefanos speaks Russian too – albeit not as well as he does. Just like he doesn’t play tennis as well as he does. The words sound correct but cautiously picked – his accent is kind of nice. Or horrible. Definitely horrible.

He’s backed in a corner. His hand flies to his neck scratching it in embarrassment as he lowers his gaze.

“Look I just wanted to make sure you didn’t do something stupid like get shot or kidnapped or something,” he says, and it sounds stupid to his own ears.

“How would I even get kidnapped in the middle of Manhattan?”

“Why were you even wearing a disguise?” Sascha asks, hoping to get back some semblance of control on the situation. Stefanos pins him with a look that tells him he’s failed miserably.

“Why were you following me?”

Not knowing what else to do, Sascha does what he does best – he pouts, crossing his arms in a defensive way. They’re at a standstill, poses mirroring each other, both of them not willing to back down first. Technically it should be Sascha, he knows that. He was following Tsitsipas for no real reason – but he can’t bring himself to admit he’s in the wrong.

Tsitsipas huffs, annoyed, shaking his head.

“Forget it,” he says, turning around and starting to walk towards the coffee shop.

Sascha watches him go, feeling stunned and pretty stupid.

“Stefanos, wait,” he hears himself call, and – what is he thinking?

Stefanos stops, and he turns around. He looks _furious, _blond curls a halo around his head, dark eyes intense and shoulders squared – a Greek deity ready to smite some poor mortal. Sascha feels a punch in his gut, that weird feeling of having cramps at his stomach returning in full force and rendering him temporarily mute.

“What,” Stefanos snaps.

“I, uh. I just followed you because I thought we could discuss some tactics. For the Laver Cup, you know. For the doubles”.

It’s not really true, but it’s the best Sascha’s got. Stefanos looks at him in a way that makes Sascha aware of the fact that he clearly doesn’t believe him, but he seems willing to let it go for the moment, because he sighs and then says, “Well come in then. Don’t follow me like a weirdo and then get cold feet and leave. Like a weirdo”.

Sascha guesses he deserves that. He’s feeling so embarrassed he’s pretty sure he’s turning the shade of a tomato, hand flying to the back of his neck once again.

“So, you coming or not?” Stefanos asks, and Sascha swears he’s smirking a little, probably laughing at him.

Stefanos doesn’t wait for him to decides and just starts walking towards the coffee shop again.

Without really realizing that he’s doing it, Sascha follows.


	4. dj got us fallin in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys on a coffee (date?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much saschanos at Laver Cup T_T posting it now to lift our spirits after Sascha lost

Alexander Zverev is kind of a dork.

The realization hits Stefanos like a punch in the gut, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He had walked out of the coffee shop ready to pick a fight and tell Zverev off, but then Zverev had kept scratching his neck and pouting and _blushing. _Stefanos’ anger had deflated like a balloon.

He was sure the German had lied about following him to talk about the Laver Cup doubles – if he had wanted to do that he would have just contacted him some other way, or just called out for him as soon as he had seen him instead of trailing behind him like the world’s worst super spy.

Still, something about Zverev’s reaction, which truly resembled that of a child getting caught red-handed between the mumbling in Russian and the terrible lie-telling, had compelled Stefanos to let him off the hook – for now.

It’s strange.

Stefanos had followed Zverev’s career with a deadly mix of envy and secret admiration – after all, he was the one paving the way, only a couple years older than him and already the winner of multiple Master 1000 and even the ATP Finals.

Zverev had been a goal, one that Stefanos wanted to reach and surpass, but even when he beat him this year in Madrid while Zverev was going through the most unfortunate streak of his career, Stefanos had felt lacking.

Truth be told, even seeing Zverev hit 20 double faults and being a complete disaster of a spy, Stefanos can’t shake that last bit of reverence he had always privately felt towards the German.

That reverence takes a sharp turn however when Zverev almost gets lost in the 20 metres separating them from the coffee shop because he stopped to pet a dog. As he witnesses Zverev cooing to the Labrador for a good two minutes, kneeling down to scratch its ears and pet it as the owner looks on with an adoring smile, Stefanos finds that all his bitterness, despise and horrible adoration almost feel like a strange kind of fondness.

No that can’t be right. Can it?

Zverev is smiling down at the dog, sharp canines in sight, and he looks so distant from the person he is on court that Stefanos is finding it difficult to reconcile them.

Once the dog and its owner walk away, Stefanos and Zverev are left alone with nothing else to do but walk in the coffee shop, both of them way too proud to back down now, despite of how awkward this will undoubtedly be.

Their last interaction had happened during their match in Madrid – which Stefanos won, thank you very much – and it hadn’t been particularly positive. Zverev had wanted Stefanos to admit to the umpire that he had been kind of pushing him to go overtime on his serve – he had – and Stefanos had just shrugged it off and ignored the German’s plea.

That night, he had laid in bed awake for hours, high on adrenaline and unable to shake that betrayed “_Stefanos?” _out of his head. That was at least until Zverev had to open his big mouth and indirectly shade him during one of his press events – then Stefanos had felt a lot better about the whole Madrid situation.

And now here they are, sitting face to face at a tall coffee table in the heart of Manhattan, the stools slightly too short for both of them despite being okay for the average person.

It’s a bit awkward.

Stefanos knows he can come across as withdrawn, or a bit weird. Zverev always seemed to him as someone who easily got along with the older guys – Stefanos was always a bit jealous of his relationship with Roger.

Zverev just always looked confident to the point of arrogance to him, so finding out that can actually be a pretty quiet and chill person off the court is a little bit of a revelation, but it also doesn’t really help the conversation.

“So… you wanted to talk. About Laver Cup,” Stefanos says, and it comes out a bit too abrupt, but he can’t take it back now.

Zverev clears his voice, gaze shifting to stare out of the window of the coffee shop for a moment. His eyes are a ridiculously clear cerulean, piercing and intense.

“Yeah, uh. Roger said we will play doubles so… we should start thinking about our tactics,” Zverev cautiously looks at Stefanos and he looks so disarmed in that moment that Stefanos feels a pang of _something _in his gut.

“I didn’t think they would invite me,” he hears himself saying, and that’s _exactly _what he didn’t want someone like Zverev to know – his biggest insecurity of not belonging with the greats, where Zverev has so comfortably found a place so young.

He’s thinking of what he could say to make it sound more like a joke when Zverev mumbles, “well, I didn’t think they would invite _me _back after the season I’ve had”.

Stefanos stares, dumbfounded, as Zverev looks back at him with such insecurity that he almost doesn’t look like himself for a moment.

“Sascha-” he starts, Zverev arching his eyebrow at the familiar name, but he finds that he doesn’t know what to tell him. He knows the feeling to well himself and nothing anyone has told him can help him shake off the feeling of being an impostor. “You know what. We shouldn’t talk tactics now. We have a lot of time in Geneva to do that, and I feel like I haven’t actually talked with you since what, 2010?”

Sascha smiles, finally, sharp canines in sight as he shakes his head slightly.

“You mean when you were obsessed with that Usher song?” he says, and there’s definitely a glint of mischievousness in his grin.

“You were obsessed too, don’t even try it,” Stefanos shoots back.

“I was _thirteen, _Stefanos! Thirteen! Don’t hold it against me now, come on,” Sascha says, raising his hands to play innocent, and it’s relieving to see him so animated again.

“In fact, I would be willing to bet it was you who made me listen to it for the first time,” Stefanos continues, enjoying the friendly banter.

It’s weird that it’s happening with Sascha Zverev of all people, but it’s kind of nice to just sit there and laugh with someone who understands exactly what you’re going through without you having to explain it to them. Stefanos doesn’t have many friends on the circuit, and he guesses it’s partly his fault for not really trying to break out of his shell more, but he’s always found it a bit hard to fit in. The fact that out of everyone Sascha, who has now gone on a rant about never truly being an Usher fan, is the one that Stefanos is at least trying to open up with – and after he was following him around, too – is kind of shocking.

“Hey,” he interrupts Sascha’s babbling. “I’m starving. I know we’re not supposed to but I really want a huge pizza right now”.

The moment he says it he starts bracing for the sting of rejection.

Oh, and how it would sting to be rejected by someone he’s been trying to best and not admire so much for years now, how awful it would feel after a second of newfound connection, if-

“Sure, I’m down. I’ve actually never tried New York pizza before. Do you know a place or should I google it?”

Sascha’s expectant blue eyes are on him, pouty mouth and sharp cheekbones completing the devastating look.

“Google it,” Stefanos replies, and his voice comes out raspy and almost breaks in half.

Sascha seems unaware, starting to tap on his phone immediately.

It takes Stefanos a good five minutes to compose himself – just enough for Sascha to suggest they get this famous pizza to take away and eat it in Central Park.

“Don’t film one of your stupid vlogs though! I’ll take no part in it”

… and that’s more like it.


	5. jane, i've been so blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sascha and Stef share a pizza in Central Park. They mess it up dramatically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sascha just lost to Medvedev so I wrote this to comfort myself but it came out angsty. Sorry?

They end up in Central Park, a giant pizza sitting between them on a bench.

It’s not where Sascha expected his night to go when he set out to go for a walk, but he find that, surprisingly, he doesn’t mind. If he has to be really honest, it’s actually really pleasant.

Stefanos can be a bit awkward sometimes, or come off as a little detached and shy – if he has to be honest, Sascha always thought the Greek was a little weird. And yet, now he’s finding himself endeared by Stefanos’ little quirks, something he never would have thought possible.

And Stefanos – Stefanos is _nice_. His laugh is infectious and his smile is warm and his eyes are welcoming as they twinkle under the city lights. There’s that weird feeling in his stomach again, and Sascha tries not to dwell on it too much, but it’s hard when Stefanos gets tomato sauce smeared all over his chin and blushes as he tries to get it off while still holding his slice of pizza. Sascha doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore but he can’t stop smiling and has he said this is _not _what he expected from this evening?

They’re talking about the last films they’ve watched while on planes, harshly criticizing each other’s preferences and taste when it comes to cinema, when Sascha’s phone goes off. It’s Mischa.

“Алло,” he answers, easily slipping into Russian before remembering Stefanos can understand it too.

“Hey Sasch, where are you? You’ve been out for hours and haven’t been answering your texts. Everyone’s kind of freaking out, especially mom”.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he replies, switching to German for some more privacy. “I’ve just, uh… bumped into a friend and lost track of time”.

Mischa, who probably knows him better than everyone else in the world, can immediately sense his half-truth. “A friend? Who would that be? You don’t have friends in New York and Marcelo is here with me – he’s also worried, by the way”.

“I said I’m sorry, I really didn’t notice. I’m not far from the hotel at all, so don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back soon”.

Mischa seems to accept the fact that Sascha doesn’t want to tell him who he’s with, because he lets it go and says goodbye after scolding him once more for not looking at his texts. Sascha feels like he’s dodged a bullet.

“Everything okay?” Stefanos asks, voice a bit cautious.

“Yeah, just my family being a bunch of worrywarts because I didn’t answer their texts right away,” Sascha replies, rolling his eyes for maximum drama.

Stefanos smiles, shaking his head. “I still remember one time where your mom worried I would get a cold and gave me your spare training clothes,” he says, and immediately he looks embarrassed to have brought it up. If Sascha is being honest, he doesn’t remember it ever happened, but it definitely sounds like something his mom would do.

“Oh yeah? I bet you kept them forever as one of the most precious things you’ve ever received,” he says, aiming for a friendly tease.

Stefanos goes very quiet for a second before giving a weak “ahah, yeah” and visibly closing in on himself, and – oh. That’s… yeah.

“You, uh, you really kept it?” Sascha asks, unable to stop himself.

Stefanos isn’t looking at him anymore, the sunny smile he had been sporting all evening gone from his face. It’s all the confirmation Sascha needed.

“But I thought you didn’t like me very much,” he says, dumbly.

Stefanos finally sets his gaze on him again, and it shocks Sascha to see how is openly hostile and full of what looks like anger. He distantly feels like it’s his fault, but he can’t figure out where he messed up or how.

“I didn’t, no,” Stefanos says, and his voice is harsh and unsteady. “And I guess I was right after all”.

It hurts a lot more than it should, and Sascha can’t for the life of him understand what he did to trigger such a reaction from Stefanos, but he’s damn sure he doesn’t deserve it.

“Wait a minute now,” he snaps, irritated and confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Stefanos gets up, almost knocking the pizza off the bench.

“Forget it,” he says.

Sascha gets up too, angry and hurt that someone who he had just opened up to and gave a chance to would suddenly treat him like that.

They’re standing tall, staring at each other, and suddenly it’s as if they were at the net right before a final, gaze intense and ready to pounce.

“What-“ Sascha tries to say, but Stefanos cuts him short with a hissed “see you in Geneva” and turns his back on him, just like he had in Madrid.

Sascha doesn’t try to follow him, furious and confused and, he can’t hide it from himself, genuinely and sincerely hurt.

He doesn’t go back to the hotel for another half hour, trying to calm down and unable to stop thinking about the time he spent with Stefanos and how good it was until it wasn’t anymore. He hates Stefanos with a passion, and yet he now finds himself desperately wanting Stefanos _not _to hate him as he seems to.

They have to play doubles in Geneva soon, and suddenly Sascha isn’t sure it was a good idea anymore.

That night, as he lies in bed awake at 4am, the look of pure spite Stefanos had sent his way still haunts him, as does Stefanos’ unguarded smile, his eyes, his laugh.


End file.
